


All About That One Night

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Drunken sex, Drunkenness, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, POV First Person, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The problem begins when he shows up outside my door with whisky...</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Grif's not a good person. Simmons might not be either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All About That One Night

**Author's Note:**

> Some extremely dubious consent issues here because of the intentional use of alcohol for the purpose of initiating sex. Nobody is ever passed out and nothing is graphically described. Mostly this is drunken rambling and an exploration of how uniquely fucked up their relationship could potentially be.

The problem begins when he shows up outside my door with whisky.  I don’t actually want to think about where he’d unearthed it from. Of course, I try to say “go away” and shut the door in his face but the fat fucker is _fast_ when he wants to be and he just pushes past me and slips inside.  
  
When I tell him I don’t drink whisky he actually has the audacity to smirk at me.  
  
“I should have guessed; I mean, it’s a real man’s drink after all.”  
  
I give him a withering look and if he’d been a plant, he would have... Um... Withered. Maybe. Only instead he laughs, annoyingly, and apologizes, insincerely. He explains to me that if I agree to one drink he’ll leave me alone and well, I figure agreeing to the compromise will be easier than arguing with him…   
  
The next thing I know, its two hours later. Holy fuck, where the hell did the time go? And I'm actually drinking whisky like that’s something I _do_. I feel a little sick at my lack of will power and look up to see him demonstrating his limited understanding of osmosis with the aid of a rubber duck. I don't know why it has to be a rubber duck and I'm pretty sure that the duck is as unimpressed as me.  
  
He queries as to if I’m going to stick to my guns still and not sleep with him. I blink, startled. I think I must have blanked on _that_ conversation pretty hard; I almost ask what gave him the idea that I would ever be willing to sleep with him in the first place, instead I just shake my head and tell him to get the fuck out of my quarters. He doesn’t listen and the next thing I know, _boom_ , I'm sitting on his knee. Uh.....  
  
I try to distract him by saying that I think Sarge may be coming to respect my ideas more, I've become less nervous about suggesting things than I used to be, because it wasn’t as if I was ever _afraid_ to, I just like to go by the book and not seem like I’m questioning a superior officer! That’d be insubordinate and being a good soldier requires- you getting your hands off my fucking crotch, perv.  
  
I realise two things then; one is that he is not going to be distracted. The other is that I'd better get off him before he takes it the wrong way and we go too far (if we haven't already.) So I kind of fall off his knee, ruining the graceful leap I'd been imagining I would perform. When he's finished laughing at me and I'm just that tiny bit more certain that I am going to _murder the shit_ out of him he kind of, I don't know; straddles my waist. The words “get the fuck off me" cross my mind, but I never get to say them because his tongue is all of a sudden down my throat. Gross. Or at least, I know I'm not too drunk to realise that if I was sober, I would trick myself into thinking it was gross. Because well, there is no facial hair stabbing me and he’s not smushing my lips against my teeth and he tastes kind of smoky and sweet because of the whisky, so really, if I’m going to be completely honest here, I’d have to say it could be a lot worse than the stroking thing he’s doing with his tongue and his lips tight against mine  
  
When he eventually remembers that we, as mammals, must breathe in order to maintain a healthy balance of _staying the fuck alive_ , he pulls back and I manage to glare at him without looking too stupid and cross-eyed because he asks me why I look ready to cut his balls off. I say it's because I'm not gonna fuck him because I don't like him and I don't like the fact that he doesn’t seem to _get_ that.  
  
He says, yeah. He does get that, really. It's just _he_ likes sex and underneath all the snarky bullshit he likes me too and he realises that in order to get a semblance of either from me, he had to get me drunk first and wear down my defenses. He shrugs then, says he's kind of sorry, but really not because he's an unapologetic selfish prick and fuck, I _know_ that. I even kind of appreciate that he’s always has the decency to be honest about it. However, I tell him that I fucking hate him because he claims to like me but he doesn’t really. I practically spit at him that he just sees me as the first person who has ever given a modicum of a shit about him and that’s why he thinks he likes me, and maybe he kind of does? I don’t want to tell him how to feel, but I wish he’d realise he actually only likes me enough to fuck me; he doesn’t actually want a relationship with me and maybe he doesn’t realise it yet, but it's true.  
  
He just looks at me all confused and I go on to explain to him that he probably actually really hates me, even if he doesn’t think he does yet. Like… There are things about me that if he knew, he wouldn’t like me, but since he doesn’t know, he’s under the delusion that he has affection for me. The whole like enough to fuck but not enough to be with thing is kind of included there too but it’s alright though, because I don’t want to fuck anybody or have a relationship so fuck everyone and the Pelican they rode in on.  
  
He ignores the majority of the rambling but asks me if being hated really bothers me so much. I sigh and say I guess it’s better than being ignored. He says yes, you're right and kisses me again, hard. And… I'm too drunk, too tired and too angry at everything. And he's got me hard and I'm already here on the floor and hell, maybe the anger will make the sex interesting and not creepy and awkward…  
  
And you know, it actually does. And I'm glad he doesn't try to hold me or stroke my back or kiss me afterwards. He just gets dressed, stumbles out the door and leaves me on the floor to think about how much I hate myself, but I'm really ok with that and maybe he's not the WORST person I could ever have been partnered with (and accidentally slept with.)  
  
Of course, now it’s the next day and he pretends he doesn’t remember a thing and looks at me like I’m crazy when I bring it up and I think I'm probably going to have to kill him something awful then bury him behind the base, but really, I think if I'm honest, maybe the problem didn't begin with him coming to my door. Maybe it started when we met. With the canyon and all the stuff that went wrong and everything else. I'm supposed to be good at figuring things out, but me and him? I think that's beyond me. I'm mad at him, probably will be for a long time but I know I'll forgive him eventually. And the whole cycle will probably repeat, and I think I'll be the one initiating it next time because fuck him if he thinks I'm just going to roll over and take it every time.

The future isn't ours to know but I guess one thing is sure; we're in each others lives and whether or not we hate each other doesn't matter. I think so long as we're not ignoring one another, there's reason to hope that things will get better between us.  
  
Well... Maybe. 


End file.
